


I am the master of my fate

by MrFahrenheit



Series: unconquered [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Child Abuse, Character Study, Control Issues, Emotional Openings Are Not Vulnerability: A Thesis in Fic Form, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Foreplay, Fuck Destiny, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is NOT an idiot, Hearing Voices, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Overthinking, Suicidal Thoughts, The Asshole's Side Of The Story, The Author Regrets Nothing, he just can't open up for shit ok he's been near-alone for a century, no beta we die like witchers, one again in the first scene and another is canonical, only once and in the first scene, seriously I wrote this mostly to prove a point lolol sorry if I was too aggressive, very light though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 22:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28500162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrFahrenheit/pseuds/MrFahrenheit
Summary: "Geralt hasn't only done good in his life - he hasn't, he really hasn't. But he has it together, so he'll live with that. He can handle that much."or: five times Geralt hardened up to feel in control and one time he didn't have to.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: unconquered [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2087670
Comments: 10
Kudos: 48





	I am the master of my fate

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everybody! First of all I apologize for the epic saga haha - it was just supposed to be a 5+1, I swear! These characters keep dragging me up and down and so the fic gets enormous. Oh well.
> 
> Important request - this fic is gonna deal with a lot of what I personally came to call "control issues", but I don't even know if that's the "official" term for it, because I scrolled down the entire Control Issues tag here on AO3 and never really found this kind of content. So if you know a better term for me to tag this as, please comment! I'll be happy to add it. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**1.** ****

"He's doing well, isn't he?"

Geralt was sure this would be one sentence forever ingrained into his brain filled with negative meanings, or so he thought while trying to make sense of the senseless psychedelia that flooded his vision even when he closed his eyes.

"For a kid, yes."

That would be another one.

He'd heard what the older boys said about the Trial of Dreams - the challenge is for you to stand up, pick up the sword, and take down the dummy. If you passed, it'd make your eyes yellow. You'd be able to see like a hawk, past fields and mountains, even at night.

Right now Geralt wasn't able to see shit.

His sight had been infested by glowing, oscillating images for what felt like hours, and it had him shaking and hyperventilating with feverish overload for what felt like half the time. He ripped his own shirt long ago, and the mages who brought this upon him seemed to watch with amusement, if the distant scoffs were anything to go by. It had been so long that Geralt could only barely discern one from the other no matter the contrast they presented, and maybe, he thought briefly, _this is what makes you see better._

He'd rather not have it.

The Grasses proved hard enough - his body went on and on with the vomiting and the shitting for days on end - but it held him through to know that it was all his insides reacting to these strange plants man was not meant to _look_ at, let alone eat regularly. These twisted "Dreams" were different - there was no physical damage done. It was all in his head. Somehow, it made him feel worse.

The challenge was for him to stand up, pick up the sword, and take down the dummy. If he failed, well - Geralt also heard of boys who went too deep into this trial, the ones who _did_ survive. Their hair turned white.

He was scared. Terrified and near-convulsing where he lay, but- _hell-_

"I think he's about to lose it."

Hell no he's not.

_The challenge is for me to stand up, pick up the sword, and take down the dummy. And I'm going to fucking own up to it._

And the moment he stood up, Geralt nearly jumped at this new phenomenon - now he was _hearing things._

 _"You’re too weak for this." "Quit. Quit now and die." "Let go. Succumb to it, boy."_ And static, endless static.

They kept on stacking, and _fuck,_ they kept on stacking. Noisenoisenoise, it feels like rain and whispers all meshed up but wrong somehow- Screams, voices, _too many_ voices, he knows he's screaming- his head is in his hands, he can't, he _can't-_

One loud, single voice breaks through the mess; dims it down and speaks clearly.

_"You won't do it."_

It's not him. It's not any of the mages. They seal the fucking room up before they start, who in _hell_ is this-

_"You won't do it because you're a crybaby."_

No. Nonono, he's _not,_ he has this, _I've got it, I **am** brave-_

_"You're not anything. You scored best in the Grasses because you gave up."_

No.

_"You let them win."_

No.

_"You surrendered to them, you're letting them use you as their lab rat even as you're fighting now-"_

_I will **never-**_

_"- and you're gonna thank them too, because ever since Mommy left-"_

_Fuck,_ no. Hell no.

Geralt crossed the room in a hurried struggle, barely realising it, relying solely on the innate knowledge only his hour-long pacings could have ever given him. He was leaning down, and suddenly the steel of the sword felt like the only thing that really existed. Palming the ground around it- more steel. Short. _Fuck, what is this-_

_"You should have known, puppydog. You don't because you gave it all to them."_

No, no, _shut up, **shut up-**_

Dagger. Short steel. Dagger is right. He picked up the larger blade, the one on the left - with two hands, like old Vesemir taught him.

_"You still remember his name. How cute. You've really given your life to this place."_

_No, I- have never!_

Geralt stepped forward, almost able to see the dummy in the center, just his height, if he tensed every muscle in his face and worsened his pulsing headache. He rose his trembling arms, squeezed the hilt so it wouldn't slip away from his sweaty hands, and striked.

When he heard, timidly through the static, the sword hit the hay and the hay hit the rocks, Geralt _saw,_ even through the haze, the thing's head hit the floor.

He gasped then, but his relief was quickly overrun by the continuation of stimuli. It wouldn't stop, it wouldn't stop...

He fell to his knees and let go a sob that he damn well hoped would echo through history. _Let me out. Let me out of this!_

Then he heard it, foggily through the sound blockage, "It's still standing."

And for one second, the longest that's ever passed, he looked at the blade in his hands with nothing but longing.

_"You're doing nothing. You are sitting here blaming yourself. You couldn’t ever even hope to get on their level, pupper."_

Geralt's eye twitched.

He tried to talk before - during the ruthless sensory overwhelm that assaulted him from the get-go. He screamed for help, he pleaded to quit, and he never heard a single syllable of anything he said - but he swears the growl he let out just now was the growl of a lifetime.

Suddenly, everything was crystal clear. The flashing lights were present, but fighting for influence, not unlike a fairy trapped in a bottle. The whispers were gone, the screams were scratchlings, and the rain became but a mild drizzle.

He turned his head and, right, he saw life in all its glorious colour display, but _further;_ and Geralt knew it was all his insides reacting to these strange lights man was never meant to see, let alone use on a child not older than ten.

He only has a sword, but that is all he needs to have.

"Wait- wait, I think the effect's passed- he's not supposed to be seeing this well, he's... looking right into my eyes," one cleric sprouted nervously.

The older witcher next to him scoffed when Geralt started walking in their direction. "I think you'll find, Priest Idrom, that the _boy's_ passed."

This is when the stories start to differ, but the last few things Geralt _does_ remember were his slurred mumblings ("I'll take down your dummy"), the jump, the blood on his hands, the sound of a door opening and _slamming,_ the sensation of being rendered unable to _move;_ and then solemn words from the more calm mage at their side:

"He's bound to have a promising destiny, this one."

No, he isn't. No, he _isn't. I am bound to no one, don't belong to you, my life is mine, not yours, I'm not your **puppydog,** let me **go-**_

Unconsciousness.

* * *

**2.**

"Have you ever heard of the... Curse of the Black Sun?"

Geralt has a certain etiquette when dealing with clients. He listens, he nods, and although he usually doesn't understand or _care_ for what they're saying, he lets them ramble on for the sake of not getting a lighter purse.

On rare occasions, however, when his patron is going mad with grief, he comforts the poor bastard. On rarer occasions, when they're going mad with... whatever else, he pulls them out of their nonsense.

"Hm. Doesn't rhyme."

In the ways he can.

"All good predictions rhyme," he finished.

It seems mages have their own etiquette, if Stregobor's dismissal was any sort of indicator.

"I studied the girls born around the Black Sun," he continued as if Geralt hadn't said a word, "and I found horrendous internal mutations among them."

_Oh, how horrible. Oh, what a shame._

"I tried to cure them, locked them in towers for safekeeping, but the girls always died."

Because that is what they always did, wasn't it? When they are _mutants,_ when nothing else will rid them of their filth. Throw them to the dark and if they don't figure it out for themselves in time, they die. Poor girls.

"Internal mutations?" Geralt asked, not expecting an answer that held up.

"They were autopsied, of course," Stregobor responded far too quickly, "to confirm my suspicions. But eliminating these women was the _lesser evil."_

Because that is what they always _do._ To take out a child as soon as _it_ strays out of your grasp. To take them down when they talk back and hold them there if they dare defy; Geralt didn't let his client ramble much further.

"Innocent women are dead," he spat. No killing would be done today.

"Kill her," the mage had pleaded not long after. "I'll pay you anything."

But Geralt kills monsters, not pretty people in taverns. He knows what a monster is. He won't bend for a madman's orders or his coin.

And Stregobor is more than annoying, but unlike him, Geralt won't drive his sword through a man just because he doesn't like him. Renfri would thank him, but he'll pack up and leave either way. What will her gratitude serve to both of them? An oath? She'd hate that as much as he does.

Renfri doesn't seem to like to be bound, and he can respect that. But if she wants him dead... Stregobor has proven through his own pomp and circumstance that she's more than capable of doing it herself.

"She has the power to destroy us all."

_More like just you._

"I don't believe anyone has that power," Geralt insisted.

Men are so self-centered to believe that this orderless, chaotic world is hell-bent on ending them. He supposes that the curses and the fate and the binarism are so popular because of the many who need to feel safe in a world that doesn't care. Geralt feels like he understands, but he doesn't need that.

He has himself, and that's all he needs.

"Killing Renfri is... the lesser evil."

_What isn't? What evil is not enough? Is evil not trapping and killing sixty innocent children over a superstitious guess-_

"Evil is evil, Stregobor."

_Because then what is it?_

"Lesser, greater, middling... it's all the same."

His answer is that: the same.

"I'm not judging you. I haven't only done good in my life either."

And he hasn't. He really hasn't. But he has it together, so he can live with that. He knows life isn't easy and you fuck up your decisions all the time. He's in control of that much. Destiny couldn't be half as honest.

"But now, if I have to choose between one evil and another... then I'd prefer not to choose at all."

When he walks out, Geralt doesn't ask questions to Stregobor or to himself. The whole situation smelled of trouble in ways the money couldn't compensate. And besides, he won't provide service to a mage who can't rhyme, let alone tell a coherent story.

Geralt likes to tell stories.

"Want to hear about my first monster?"

And he goes off; it was huge, bald head, rotten teeth. Picked up an innocent child to torture for its own amusement, all of that not fifty miles away from the place he came to call home. When Geralt killed the beast, he was lauded with screams, vomiting, and _unconsciousness._ Roach's snort felt like a well-earned prize.

"Yeah. I thought the world needed me too."

Geralt likes to tell stories, but his mare is the only one to hear them. That's not always what he wants, but it'll do.

Until she isn't. And then her wordless company is _just_ what he wants.

"Who were you talking to?"

Witchers don't startle, old Vesemir said. The ones who do are the first to go. It's Renfri, too; not easily scared, but it's not like it's hard for a witcher to send the bolder ones running, and honestly, he's used to it. He is. He _is._

"I talk to my horse."

"That's sad."

"Is it?"

He finds these people on the road; people who tell him that he needs to talk it out. They're the first to go out in sprints, and it's funny, really. Renfri hasn't yet, but he figures after this many decades in activity he was bound to find someone... who understood. Partly. Not mostly. But certainly partly.

Maybe it is sad that he talks to his horse. But it's free.

"Tell me, witcher," she asked tentatively, "you don't believe in destiny, or the lesser evil. What do you believe in?"

_I don't need to believe when I can know._

"You mean... _who_ do I believe," Geralt carefully avoided it. "I don't pick sides."

"You just kill monsters."

He gestured a yes and hoped that it would make her turn around and leave. But Renfri stepped forward and sat by his side, and he couldn't say he was unhappy with this development either. Not now that it happened.

"I've made my decision. You gave me an ultimatum, and I find they work."

Geralt thought of chuckling, but she was serious. It would be insensitive. Renfri is the kind of person he can't help but care about, and he doesn't want her to feel bad.

"Tomorrow I'll leave Blaviken. For good," she punctuated. Geralt looked at her for just a second, and felt so strongly he looked away, scared of his own reply.

"My men, they love me and I love them. But it's been a long time since someone saw me."

 _She understands,_ Geralt mulled over, _more than partly._ When she smiled, he longed.

"My mother used to run her fingers over my forehead," Renfri mused, gesturing a caress. Geralt didn't have that, but he thinks he understands. Partly.

"She'd say... she'd give a lovely lintar... to know the thoughts going around in there."

Then she placed her hand on his knee, and Geralt looked at her. And he felt even more strongly, but this time, he couldn't look away even if he wanted to. If this were anyone else, he'd hate it, he'd back out, because his heart is the _one thing_ he has control over-

But when Renfri brushed his hair out of his forehead, he knew she wouldn't judge. And when she hesitated, he knew she wouldn't force, either, even if she wanted to.

She didn't know, because he didn't bare his bones. But for the first time, he didn't need to.

Geralt kills monsters, not pretty people in taverns. And when they looked each other up and down, when they couldn't decide which part of the other they found more intriguing and amazing, Renfri was more than pretty. She was simply beautiful.

But she must have scared some part of him, or he wouldn't have bad dreams.

_"You were in the market, covered in blood. You say you can't choose, but you had to."_

This can't be her. She wouldn't say it, would she? She wouldn't, she _knows-_

_"Your reward will be a stoning."_

No, fuck, not _again,_ he has this, he _has_ this, _I've got it-_

_"And you will run."_

He won't run. He's brave. In some way. _I'm not some kind of scared puppydog-_

_"You will try to outrun the girl in the woods, but you cannot."_

_What is this? Hell, what is this, I can do what I damn **want-**_

_"She is your destiny."_

No, not this bullshit again, not _here,_ he didn't think- he didn't-

Geralt wanted to _thrash_ and _scream_ and _protest,_ but he was shut. He couldn't. He couldn't, he couldn't, he could only say-

"Renfri."

The day after, Geralt knew why he got scared. It was out of control from the moment he followed Marilka to when he loomed over the bodies.

He needed to stay alone, and he took Renfri's brooch as an eternal reminder of that memory second. And hers first.

* * *

**3.**

Geralt startled awake. It took a couple of drowsy blinks to realise that he was in an unfamiliar place, a couple more to realise that he had just _woken up_ in an unfamiliar place, and half a blink to tense every muscle in his face and worsen his pulsing headache. He grunted, and it must have been loud.

"Your scars. You heal quite nicely. Your will to live is strong."

Triss Merigold. She must have found him half-dead after fighting-

"The princess?" Geralt blurted out.

"I've arranged for her to stay a while with the Sisters of Melitele."

 _Right. She's fine then._ But that wasn't the whole meaning behind his words, and he was happy to keep it to himself.

Triss then elaborated on what happened while he was out: the girl's neck healed fine, and Foltest credited Ostrit, the very man who caused this, for the heroic act of saving the kingdom's princess - alienating two undesired elements at the same time. _Smart how he killed two birds with one stone,_ Geralt thought, half-amused and half-disgusted.

"Anyone else would have killed the princess," Triss started. "But you chose not to."

When he was a child, witchers taught Geralt that sometimes, death is necessary, and that is when he comes into play. Over the years, he learned that in _many_ cases, death isn't necessary.

A long time ago, Renfri taught Geralt that sometimes, he shall come into play _because_ death isn't necessary at all. Over the years, he learned to discern when was when.

There's a stark difference between _learning_ and _being taught._ Learning helps him not get killed. Learning helps him get stronger, smarter, and sometimes, happier.

 _Being taught_ things usually helps him too, but not without leaving a bitter taste in the mouth. Being taught requires a teacher, and Geralt already loathed the way he had to submit to certain authorities as it was. His teachers rarely were around long enough to actually give him the "I told you so" he dreads so much, but it was a lose-lose game either way: either they _were_ and he _hated_ it (as with most of his mentors before Kaer Morhen was sacked), or they _weren't_ and he missed them.

A painful dichotomy - to miss the ones he loved, and simultaneously dread the time he falls to bed because he knows they'll just scold him there. Geralt blames only himself. No one is born knowing everything, but if only _he_ had been.

 _It's selfish,_ he thought once, back then, _but it's all I can hold onto._

Geralt accumulated all of that throughout his life up until that point, and he thought about it often when he was alone in the woods - but not now. Now he wasn't alone in the woods.

He grunted again.

"I'll take my coin now. I need to get back to my horse."

But Triss had other plans, and his secret relief at not being found out didn't last a _minute._

"Who's Renfri?"

A woman. Love of his life. A teacher. All were correct. None sounded well on the tongue.

"Hers was the only name you uttered over and over in your sleep."

He should go.

"My coin."

Triss' lips quirked up, and though Geralt liked her determination and effort to go through with the right thing, he didn't like at all where _this_ was going. Sorcerers are way too comfortable to tell him how they think he feels.

"So that's all life is to you? Monsters and money?" she asked as she stepped forward.

Geralt smiled then, a flicker of a thing, because he does far better with honest questions than with the swirly, overly decorated talk the more magically enlightened try to shove down his throat. Yes - Geralt's smile flickered like that of a man who's dug deep enough into his shadows to find his true self and come out hand-in-hand with him in the depths of night. Tired, changed, but he's done the work. No one did it for him. No one taught him how to - he _learned._

Tired, changed - self-sufficient.

"It's all it needs to be."

Triss' face soured. Her features turned serious when before they were jocose, and Geralt had a terrible, terrible feeling that he just came across another well-intentioned "teacher". The flicker of a smile on his face disappeared like magic.

"You say this is all life is to you," she doubted, and it made him feel like a child all over again, "but there is a vortex of fate around all of us, Geralt, growing with each and every one of our choices... drawing our destinies in closer."

It took him back, faintly, briefly, to when he was a student, being taught by ways of force; and _just_ that - a student. Not a witcher. Not the Butcher, surely, but not the White Wolf.

Not Geralt of Rivia, and not _Geralt_ at all. Just a tiny little mistake - a teeny drop of a consciousness that the greater whole accidentally let slip out. A _flickering_ smile that shall grow ever brighter when he finally sinks in and lets his individuality dissipate into Fate. Some folk believe that is what we all are as children. Some believe that is what we all are, _period,_ and it seems Triss is among them. It's one of those things in this world that make him roll his eyes and want to laugh. Not people seeking solace in the unexplained; that he can understand. It's when they decide to make themselves smaller and prostrate themselves. When they decide to surrender, to give _in_ to a something _out_ , as if that's what's gonna give them peace.

And really, nobody expects a witcher to get this philosophical. None of them get Geralt's alone time with a horse either.

But it was faint, brief, and now he is no child or student; he's old and grown enough to spot one of these intrinsic beliefs humans hold to comfort themselves of the order of the world, even when they make no sense. Fairy tales.

Geralt looked down at Triss' hand when she offered him a pouch. In it, Renfri's brooch, all clean from the blood and the dirt and the rust of the years. Like new.

"I feel something out there waits for you," she confessed. "Something _more."_

He's _had_ his something more, and he's done with it. Monsters he can understand, and coin doesn't spring up legs and run.

Witchers live on for centuries, and he _might,_ just might - because he's a damn fool - have another something more. But not like this; never like this.

Geralt wants to learn, but he never wants to be taught, not ever again.

* * *

**4.**

"In Rinde. The djinn."

Geralt knew the truth would have to come out eventually. He also knew it wasn't the whole of their relationship.

"That's why we can't escape each other. Why I feel this way inside," Yennefer realised.

"No."

And now, he knew she wouldn't believe him.

"It's not because of anything _real…_ or true."

_It **is.** It **is** real, we've seen each other so-_

"You made a wish," she concluded. "It's magic."

_Not anymore, for so long._

"It's real, Yen," Geralt tried weakly, and cursed himself immediately. His own tone made him feel stupid, and his very attempt drove Yennefer off his side. She walked over to look at him face to face.

"How could we ever know?"

He felt it. Geralt could sense it by now - when he was about to _be taught_ something. It made him pull at his own seams, internally. But he won't act on it, he won't. He _won't._ It wouldn't be fair to Yennefer. It wouldn't be fair to Borch, even. Not to Jaskier sitting in the corner. He won't do it.

"Disregard for others' freedom has become quite your trademark."

Geralt knows what it feels like to have the agency stripped out of your fingers. It didn't go down exactly the way it did to Yennefer, but they _got_ it. It created a link between them, and that happened far sooner than any last wish. He couldn't have let what happened to Renfri happen to Yennefer too. _I had to **do** something-_

"I made that wish to save your life."

He won't act on that selfish feeling. He won't. It's been so long. He can't just do this to her.

"I didn't need your help!

He will.

"Like fuck you didn't."

He went out of his way. Geralt went out of the way of every promise he's ever made, every principle he was supposed to uphold, every secret he was supposed to keep, because the truth was - and he _knew_ it - he _loved_ her. He knew, because he loved Jaskier for twice as long, and while he could never be loved in return, Geralt can't simply turn a blind eye to his slow-beating heart when it wants to jump through the roof and ask for comfort.

What he _can_ do is keep it there, tucked inside his chest where it's safe, and take it out to look at it sometimes, assess the damage. When Yen showed up, he knew he wouldn't have to worry about "safe", because she _was_ safe. She understood. She felt it, that ache to affirm, and likely in much higher intensity. Geralt never had to say that he loved her, because she _knew_ that... or in Geralt's mind she knew that.

In reality it seemed she only _thought_ so, and was just about to change her mind. He's not ready for that. He knows he'll regret it, but this time his heart is threatening to jump out in _fear._

"And _you,"_ he started acidly, "you flit about like a tornado, wreaking havoc, and for _what?"_

Fear and contempt.

"So you can have a _baby?"_

For having thrown his heart into chaos.

"A child is no way to boost your fragile ego, Yen."

He knew that it wasn't the whole story. She wanted to be loved just as he did, and perhaps this is what placed them in this situation in the first place. They're like lock and key for a door you don't want to open, and rationally, Geralt _knows_ this, but perhaps the djinn got to him too. Perhaps the djinn is free now, and vengeful.

Perhaps he just doesn't want to be held accountable.

"I'll take advice from you about children as soon as you take responsibility for the one you bound to you and then abandoned!"

"That's enough."

And it was. But Geralt can't complain. He started it.

His eyes wouldn't dart off of Yennefer's if the sun came crashing down. It was idiotic, and he knew the best thing he could do is leave and cool his head, but he couldn't look away, and he hated it, he wanted to back off, he wished he wasn't so shackled to her angered expression, and- oh. _It's what she must have felt._

But - and that is what irritated him the most - Geralt turned to magic, and the most powerful sorceress in the world just had to go for his pride.

"I'm going to save you both a lot of hurt with a little pain now."

And there it was. The _teaching._

Borch kept speaking after this, but he didn't hear any of it. The regret was too great to look at anything other than Yennefer's reaction, and when she blinked and looked down, when she suddenly couldn't bear to look at Geralt as if he had killed her child himself, his mind touched the surface of just how _thoroughly_ he had fucked up his decision.

"He already has."

Destiny couldn't be half as honest.

The dragon by his side looked indifferent, as if this wasn't the first time he had witnessed the end and wouldn't be the last. Even then, as Yennefer walked away in strides, Geralt knew he must have imparted the best wisdom he could offer in what reached his ears as blurry phonemes; like a friendly graveyard keeper comforting a grieving man.

Welcome, but not enough.

"You wanted to show me what I was missing," Geralt stated bitterly, "There she goes."

Borch replied, "What you're missing is still out there."

_I know._

"Your legacy."

_I don't need a reminder._

"Your destiny. I know it."

_They are **not-**_

"And _you_ know it."

Geralt's mouth and mind trembled with words unsaid. Some to Borch - _Don't reduce them to the product of a **fiction.** And don't reduce **me** to a script._ \- but the ones he felt the most were to Yennefer - _I love you, and I’m sorry._ His "graveyard keeper" left right after, and Geralt turned to look at the mountains, in hopes that his vision might clear him out of his troubles.

It would never, he knows. He can't see _shit_. Can't see like a hawk, not past fields and not past these cursed mountains he should never have set foot in. He's heard of other people who failed this badly. Their hair turned white.

Geralt's maddening stress came to a head when Jaskier spoke, and this time, he didn't even have time to register the regret he otherwise would have felt before opening his own mouth to talk.

"Damn it, Jaskier!"

He was angry.

"Why is it..."

Very angry.

"The Child Surprise..."

Not at Jaskier.

"The _djinn..."_

Never at Jaskier.

"If life could give me _one_ blessing…”

Never Jaskier.

"It would be to take _you-"_

Never.

"-off my _hands."_

It was all him.

"Right, uh..."

And Geralt knew it as soon as he said it.

"Right, then."

But it's too late now.

"I'll..."

He'd rather die than be humiliated in this way.

"I'll go get the rest of the story from the others."

And besides... Jaskier deserved better.

"See you around, Geralt."

Geralt hasn't only done good in his life. He has it together (probably), so he can (likely) deal with that. But just because _he_ can doesn't mean that _others_ should.

He didn't deserve Yennefer. Or Jaskier. Or anything. He probably doesn't deserve this child, either. But he wants them all - on different levels for different elements. He wants them. He knows he has to become a better man if he wants to have them.

 _I love you, and I’m sorry._ Fuck. To both of them. All of them.

Destiny, legacy, something more... it doesn't matter what the kid is called. Geralt made a choice of payment, and if he doesn't collect it, no one will ever look in his face again.

Including himself.

* * *

**5.**

Geralt is familiar with waiting.

In fact, it's one of his old friends - Geralt has a few of them. Waiting, Death, Disappointment, Desire, Destiny... two of these are not like the others.

 _Waiting doesn't start with a D,_ he thought amusedly as he waited for a helper to come open the Temple, _and Destiny is not my friend._

Just as he finished it, a young apprentice appeared in his field of view, key in hand and ready to allow Roach and Geralt to enter. He thanked him in a murmur and led his horse inside, pretending not to see the priest flush.

_Or anyone's. Imaginary, perhaps._

He's not a religious man by any means - it's not something he can perceive with his own senses, so he figures that _if_ someone is up there, they have no interest in making contact - but the beauty of the statues to Melitele sways him every time he visits. Something compels him to leave a couple of golden coins near an image, and Geralt could never really find an explanation for the feeling.

He mentioned it to Jaskier once when they passed by the main road - _"That's charity, my friend. It's called being a good person,"_ he had said with a disarming smile.

Geralt scrunched his face to the feeling of the pang in his chest. For just a moment.

His current explanation for this feeling was that Ciri was here now, and would probably be for another year, and he admits that he came to care for her. Become something of a father.

And Yennefer's become something of a mother.

When Ciri saw him, a quick smile flashed through her face, but she didn't lose any pace in her mock-fight with Yen. Geralt climbed down from Roach and stood there to watch where it went. Her fighting style changed suddenly, and it became obvious that Ciri was trying to impress. It pulled a smile out of him.

_Something of a father, eh?_

Yennefer ended up “winning” by the end of it and lightly scolding Ciri as to not be so performatic, and then allowing her to rest for a while before they resumed. Geralt found he didn't want to stop smiling at all during this exchange, nor during the catch-up with Ciri.

He stopped smiling as soon as she left, because of the immediate first topic that Yennefer brought to the table.

"Have you seen who's in town?"

His heart panged a second time.

About a year ago or so, when Geralt first found Ciri, he took her to Kaer Morhen. When she started having worrying visions, he should have called on Yen, but his pride was too strong. So he called on Triss, and he thanks her deeply for her help, although his pride was wounded anyway when she charmed him into a love against his agency.

It was in this very Temple of Melitele that Geralt and Yennefer met again, talked through their issues, and made up. The night didn't go down in sex like it might have two years ago, but it did go down in drinking _("In a temple,"_ he jested back then. _"How blasphemous,"_ Yennefer had grinned back.) and talking, and they talked about things they never thought they'd talk about.

Love or not, kissing or not, they understood. They _got_ each other.

Which is why Geralt knew he'd hear this from her, sooner or later. _For all I know she might have led him here herself._

"No. Who?"

"Your bard."

Yeah. “His” bard.

"He looks so young, did you know that?"

Jaskier occasionally mentioned wanting to live a long life like a witcher does, and Geralt always bit back that it really isn't as good as it sounds like. But inside his mind he always found it would suit Jaskier - a man that loves life this much should be allowed to marry it. Geralt is glad he found it - or is just overall less stressed from not being around a stupid, stupid man.

"I believe you," Geralt replied quietly after seconds of awkward silence. Yennefer sighed.

"That night. When we got drunk and talked," she started, "you told me you loved him."

He wanted to look at anything else.

"It doesn't mean I didn't love you too-"

"That's not the point," Yennefer interrupted, raising her hand in a 'stop' motion. Geralt thinks it's supposed to be comforting. "Do you still?

"Love you?"

"Love _him."_

He looked away, then, because that was simply too much. He knows the answer, and in his right mind he _knows_ that Yennefer won't judge him for it, but he's still scared to say it. She didn't turn her gaze, however, and it seemed she really, _really_ wanted him to know that whatever he had inside, he could say it. Geralt never felt this locked-up with Yennefer, and it frustrated him.

"You know, it doesn't really matter," she said, in what he assumes is another way to be comforting. "I'm not the one to hear it."

He still couldn't release the breath in his throat.

"Yen, I-"

"I'm not mad."

And somehow that comforted him more than any of her gestures or changes of gaze.

"Hmm."

She doesn't say it. There are various "its" Yennefer could be saying right now - "I told you so", "You're better than this", "I knew it", and various others - but she doesn't say any of them. She asks and she states, and it's like she's deliberately trying to avoid being a teacher.

Geralt told her about his teachers. Yen told him about hers. She hates them as much as he does. In that they found their greatest solidarity.

"I went to the tavern earlier today, on my way to fetch ingredients," she mused friendly. "He played your song."

Third time's a charm - his chest _hurt._

"Did he?"

Yennefer nodded positively. "He looked stunning."

"He really must have for _you_ to say that," he replied with a small smirk.

Yennefer complimenting Jaskier is the definition of drastic measure. It made Geralt chuckle - a little more than he'd wanted to. He looked into her eyes, and Yennefer joined along quickly. When he came to see, they were both laughing heartily at the whole situation, and it felt like that night again.

"Geralt- _Geralt-"_ she called, trying to pull him back from his fit, having trouble with her own, "I'm serious. I asked around, out of curiosity."

The last traces of crinkled eyes excused themselves from Geralt's expression and he took a deep breath, more attentive.

"He's leaving tomorrow at sundown, and you know you're always welcome to spend the night here," she emphasised. "I won't tell you what to do, because this is your choice only... and I'd hate it if it were me."

He nodded along.

At this moment, Ciri showed up again, and the rush of happiness he felt when he looked at her and when he offered to swordfight her and when she accepted it _and_ when Yennefer was watching their training with amusement... that's what made up his mind.

He doesn't know if he's a better man yet, but women born on Belleteyn don't usually stick around with the bad ones.

* * *

**+1.**

Geralt hates waiting.

Or- no, that's a misnomer. He doesn't mind waiting; he just hates it when his pulse quickens up in response to something that shouldn't, really _shouldn't,_ trigger this reaction at all, like hopping up on his horse the same way he's been doing for a century. Or exiting the Temple, like he's been doing for a year.

Or loving, like he's been doing his whole life.

 _That's the thing,_ Geralt reflected as Roach strutted out of the building, _I **chose** this._

He'd been thinking about it from morning to sundown today, when he greeted Yen and Ciri and Nenneke and the one apprentice who looked at him with profound admiration and nearly tripped over himself when Geralt spoke to him. _This is a choice we make and don't make._

The way he sees himself, Geralt has a body and a mind. These might sometimes clash but decades of meditation _should_ have given him full control over both; even so, he loved in deep ways. He never planned or wished for it, and thus he still had troubles with this development - it could mean he actually _hasn't_ been in control for this long, and the thought scared him more than his first monster. More than the bald head and the rotten teeth fifty miles outside of home.

Indeed, “home" has earned its title in his heart because it's the place where he grew and developed some of his most important skills and traits. Back home was when his rationality finally found a good enough reason not to kick him for loving. Back home was when he found out he has a body, a mind, and a _heart._

Geralt entered Ellander at a slow pace, one among many horse riders and travellers in town. The hood hid his white hair and the failures he came to forgive. The hood didn't hide those he didn't forgive, however, for they were written all over his face as he worried. _What if he's still angry? What will I do then?_

He took a deep breath, and it didn't calm him much, but at least it made his hands sweat less under the leather gloves.

Back home Triss sneaked into him a love spell, and one reason he isn't bitter about it is because she learned a lesson, even if he abstained from teaching. Another, more important reason would be - when the effects of the spell passed, so did his love, but beyond a small hurt, he didn't feel any sort of negative towards her. He wasn't even mad, properly. He understood. They remained good friends.

In that moment, he had the bread and butter for love - but his heart didn't want Triss, so it didn't fall in love with Triss. That was a choice.

The day Geralt met Jaskier and regarded him with nothing but annoyance and irritation and a deep, _deep_ sigh stemmed from the knowledge that he _will_ get one of them killed - well, his heart _wanted_ him.

When Jaskier sung his praises to the heavens up high, when his silver eyes shone under candlelight as he said "here we are", when his hands flew everywhere with every point he made, Geralt's heart _fluttered_ \- and it fluttered by _choice._

His heart is there, even now, beating to keep him alive, flying like a hawk to keep him on edge, because Geralt was made to survive, but he learned to _live_. His heart is but a part of him he'll control when he comes to terms with it, and _This,_ he thought as he climbed down from Roach in the inn's stables, already hearing the siren's call from inside-

_This_

He went for the door-

_is_

Turned the knob-

_**it.** _

Geralt pushed the wood open, and what he found was a place bustling with life on the tables. Waiters moved about taking orders and delivering, and all the stools in the bar were filled by joyous men and women hollering about their conquests.

Dancing through it all was Jaskier, _beautiful_ and, in fact, looking younger than ever, in his white trousers and blue doublet. He was playing a ballad on his lute and singing, and although the lyrics were sour _(It's always lose-lose),_ the crooning voice behind them was a relief on the ears. Yennefer's only mistake was underestimating how _gorgeous_ he looked, and Geralt smiled.

He chose to.

There were just a couple of empty seats by corners, and Geralt sat on one of them, a lonely little thing close to the window. A waitress quickly came to his aid asking what he'd like to order, and he settled for a beer, because there was no way he was going to do this completely sober.

And just how is he going to do this anyway? He can't just make Jaskier stop the show and talk to him, and he doesn't _want_ to do that either - having the chance to hear him sing again isn’t something he’ll ruin for his own hurry. So he'll have to wait, right, until he's finished, and that buys him some time to think. _Think._

Now, should he approach Jaskier while he's still down here or wait for him to go upstairs and gather his belongings? He _is_ going to be leaving in less than an hour, if Yennefer was really right. Would people look at him? That's the last thing he wants. Is he gonna have to rent a room to be allowed upstairs?

Oh, and-

"The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you _fool,"_ Jaskier sang as he strummed, never settled in a single place. He wasn't looking at Geralt, but it felt irrationally personal. He wondered if this was intentional.

By the time his beer arrived, Geralt was able to decide on one thing - he'd pull off his hood and he'd do it now. Ellander is far from a hostile place to witchers, at least when compared to more southern lands. Jaskier would inevitably see him in his wild prancing, and the face he made would seal it - over time, Geralt learned how to read him.

So he did exactly that - pulled back his hood, and Jaskier turned to his direction _right_ on time, and when he _saw_ him-

"But the story is this-"

Eyes locked. Eyebrows raised. Fire.

A breath held. In. In. In.

"She'll destroy with her sweet kiss, her sweet kiss, _oh..."_

Out.

Jaskier faltered for a single moment- Geralt doesn't know what that means. He doesn't know this song, it could just be a part of it - or it could be that Jaskier really was in such pure shock that he faltered a note. It raised more questions than answers, and now Geralt had revealed himself. Brilliant.

He pinched his own thigh over the leather.

_So what now? What do I do?_

He briefly considered leaving, but remembering his own reaction after seeing Yen for the first time in two years, he decided that there was a chance it wasn't bad news. Who knows? Maybe they could even be friends again.

Jaskier finished the song with a drag of the lips, gently releasing the strings and letting their vibration do the rest of the work. He was met with applause by the patrons of the inn, and no one was watching, so Geralt _might_ have softly clapped his hands along.

No, he did it. He chose to.

"Thank you, people, thank you! Have a wonderful night!"

He bowed with all the grace of a viscount as he left his place of spotlight and headed upstairs without another glance to spare, to the crowd or to Geralt. When he got back, no glances either, and he was going for the bar. The knot in his stomach suddenly felt heavier, and he scowled as he turned to look forward and have a chug at his drink.

 _This is stupid. Why did I even come here?_ he thought as the cold of the lager hit his throat. _Did you really think he was going to want to talk to you? I'm gonna finish this and then I'll leave-_

"You really don't change, do you, Geralt?"

The sound of Jaskier's friendly voice right behind his ear made him freeze in place, and the double take he made his mind execute had him nearly choking on his beer. After that, however, the shame immediately came into play, and he quickly finished his cup before setting it back on the wooden table.

He sighed, trying not to let any of it show.

"All these years," he started, taking a couple steps forward so Geralt could see him properly, "and you're _still_ sitting in a corner to brood."

Jaskier turned around, and he must have recognised the shame on Geralt's face, despite his best efforts, because he softened his grin into a gentle smile right then and there.

Over time, Jaskier had learned how to read _him_

_If he's taking the effort to do this, it means he's not completely opposed to talking. Fuck this, I'm gonna risk it._

"Do you still love the way I do it?" Geralt replied, trying to sneak in a playful smile to make it _clear_ that it's just a joke.

 _Jaskier_ seemed to do a double take then, and he figured he must have been shocked to know that Geralt still remembered the first words they exchanged. How could he ever forget?

"Well," he laughed back, "I suppose. Here to drink alone?"

And if it had been said to any other person in any other context, it would have been a cute, nice little flirt, but Geralt knew what it was - a genuine question. _"Do you still want me out?"_

"No. No, actually. I came to talk to you."

Geralt didn't know what face to make to seem more sincere, so he said it just as he'd have said anything else (just keeping his eyes a little wider). Jaskier frowned, but sat down on the chair opposing his, setting his own mug atop the table.

"How did you know where to find me?" Jaskier asked, somber serious, and Geralt felt deeply, deeply unwanted. This was not going to be easy, but truth was the best way.

"Yennefer."

Jaskier's eyebrows shot up.

"She's in the Temple of Melitele, she's... training Ciri. I came to visit them. And she told me you were in town."

The whole truth.

Jaskier's mouth opened a little bit as his eyebrows came back down. He closed it again, and took a chug of his own beer before speaking.

"Ciri as in-"

"The child surprise."

Now his jaw outright dropped, if lightly.

 _"The_ child surprise-"

"Pavetta's, yes. I... found her."

The bard remained silent, and Geralt took it as a bad sign. He knows Jaskier likes noise, so he'll try to fill it up as best as he can. Suddenly his heart isn't beating so fast anymore; _This feels... **familiar,** if heavy._ Not unlike the deeper conversations he'd sometimes hold with Jaskier to the light of the fire.

"Wow, she- she must be really strong now, mustn't she? I mean, it's been, well, a few _years,_ right..." and so he continued, awkwardly, and suddenly it was "bread in pants" all over again. Geralt thought of chuckling, but he was serious, and it would be so _tremendously_ insensitive-

"I love you."

His rambling stopped immediately. This time it was _Jaskier_ freezing in place, and Geralt closing his face and clenching his fists.

"I... Geralt-"

"I love you, and I'm sorry," he continued through squeezed eyelids and gritted teeth, before inhaling deeply and finding the courage and the decency to at least _look_ at Jaskier before he throws it all away. He looked... confused? Upset? Something like it.

"For what I told you that day on the mountain," he elaborated without tearing away his gaze. "You didn't deserve any of it. I was mad at my own mistakes and took them out on you, and..."

And this was the part where he wouldn't bear to look, so he just averted his eyes to the window instead.

"If you don't want to see me again, I won't judge you for it. I'll..." he trailed off before continuing, "Leave. And not bother you anymore."

Geralt looked back at the man in front of him, then, and a couple of seconds passed before Jaskier opened his mouth and closed it again. _He looks like he doesn't know what to make of this._

"But I had to come talk to you one more time just to let you know how much I regret every word I said to you there... and then let you make your own judgement."

 _Done,_ he thought. _The floor is yours._

Jaskier spent a good time silent - fifteen or seventeen seconds. Those amounts of time you think are little until you actually sit back and count. During this time, he finished his drink. During this time, he looked first into Geralt's eyes, then to the table, then to the window - and it pulled at him, the way Jaskier could never really stand _still._

Always on the move, always _doing._

By the end of it, he laughed. Heartily. And while Geralt dearly missed that laugh, he felt himself tense up. _Yeah, I knew he wouldn't want to hear from me._ He rose up from his seat to leave the place-

"No- _Geralt."_

His face turned serious as he reached for Geralt's hand, and he damned the gloves in the privacy of his own mind, but never without looking at Jaskier.

"Stay. Let me continue?"

The witcher's shoulders slumped.

"Hmm."

He sank down on the chair again.

"I'm not laughing at you. I... appreciate that you came here and told me this, because you don't go and say these things to just about anybody," he explained, hand never leaving Geralt's. "So forgive me for my outburst, it was just- very shocking, really."

He nodded in agreement. He hasn't used this many words to properly address things to another person since, well... since the dragon hunt.

"I accept your apology. And going from what you said, it seems you made up with Yennefer as well, and took responsibility for your child, which... is all very well, Geralt, very well, but- darling, I-" he laughed again, and Geralt felt the spring of his shame coiling up again, but let him continue, "I forgave you so long ago."

Now, he could say he was positively puzzled. _What?_ His chin slacked down and he blinked once, then twice, in order to process that.

"Yes, I, well-" Jaskier said, removing his hand from Geralt's - an automatic gesture, just so he could wave them all around as he does. It told Geralt that he really was sincere, and by god, he could barely contain his relief. "I was really upset for the, what, first six months or so? Then I got over it, back to normal life."

Geralt simply blinked again.

"And in the meantime, was I upset? _Yes._ To the point of writing a song? _Definitely._ But I'm fine now. I cried a little, and I'm fine. Relax, Geralt. You weren't the first heartbreak, as you doubtlessly heard me say," he chuckled, "But friends fight and quarrel and say stupid things to each other all the time. I'm glad that you're alive. And, yes, I'm fine... but I'm glad you regret saying it. It means you really... care. Thank you."

The witcher released a breath he didn't even realise he was holding, and he thought it must have been all pretty stable until he heard Jaskier reminding him of his own words.

"But also... you said that... you love me."

And his heart froze again. This would be the thing that would get him out of Jaskier's life, after all of that apology. _Shit._

"I... said that."

"You said that." He grinned. "Care to elaborate?"

Geralt sighed, but liked the fact that Jaskier wasn't laughing at him for it - more like widening his eyes like a teenager. _He'll never really leave his youth, will he?_

"No, actually-" he interrupted, "You don't have to dive into details, I know you have trouble with that. What I want to know is- oh, I'll invoke my tremendous storytelling ability right now, leave the details for me. So."

Jaskier reached out again, and took his hand. Geralt tried not to swoon.

"If we're out there again, traveling south, and we're all alone, and you're trying not to tell me that you love me, and you're trying to choke down on the feeling, and you're trembling, but I reach over and _touch_ you," he squeezed Geralt's hand, "Like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a _name_ for... would you kiss me back?"

And Geralt feels like he swallowed pills, because he can't follow a single fuck that this man is trying to say, and he feels _bad_ about it, because he really should make an effort to at least _try_ to understand the things Jaskier is passionate about, like the song that springs out of his fingers and poetry that spills out of his lips.

But those lips are smiling now, so Geralt assumes the best and smiles too, a flicker... like a man who's dug deep enough into his shadows to find the love of his life and come out with him hand-in-hand in the depths of night.

"I'd kiss you, Jaskier. If you would let me."

Jaskier’s grin spread through his whole face. He got up then, and pulled Geralt by the hand, and he's way stronger, he can back out anytime he wants, but he follows regardless, and not without asking questions, as his friend walks him through the tables.

"Jaskier, where are we going-"

"Out!"

"Jaskier, our _drinks-"_

"Our drinks are _paid for,_ Geralt, I paid yours for you, now will you _please_ get on with the program?"

He said all of that without turning back once, and Geralt had way too little time to think about what the hell could _possibly_ be going on when Jaskier, he went for the door-

_Don't tell me he'll-_

Turned the knob-

_Really test it-_

Pushed the wood open and as soon as they were out, as soon as they were alone in the dark with a barrier behind them and no pedestrians in sight, Jaskier pulled him by the shoulders and kissed him, leaning back against the door.

Geralt let out a small sound; years upon years of built-up frustration and hope and _madness_ and happiness condensed into one groan, and when Jaskier's hands slipped into his hair and cupped his cheeks, he let himself _go_ and melt into it, really give _in…_ for all of two seconds.

Until he figured that he didn't have to do that - no, it wouldn't be _him._ More like a friendly graveyard keeper comforting a grieving man.

Welcome, but not nearly enough.

He pulled himself together and _kissed back_ properly, placing his hands on Jaskier's midriff as they breathed each other in. Meanwhile, they were pushing and being pushed all around, and the bard soon ended up with his back to the western wall of the inn, rather than the northern one where the door remained unopen. Geralt licked his lower lip then, and when Jaskier's mouth parted, he invited himself inside.

They _tasted_ each other - beer, mostly, but there was a hint, just a _hint_ of something more. For all his enhanced perceivings, Geralt couldn't tell what it _was,_ so it must have been simply that heat of each other that wasn't simple at all, one which more than deserved nights upon nights of thorough exploration.

"I love you too," Jaskier murmured between kisses. "Love you, love you, always loved you, Geralt-"

It didn't take much for Geralt to get a little _too_ excited, hands roaming everywhere, even in the cold autumn wind. Jaskier pushed him away, just lightly, but Geralt took that as a sign to get a move on, and started kissing up his jaw as Jaskier kept his hands on his shoulders.

"Geralt," he called shakily.

"Hmm?" he breathed warm and low against his ear before placing a kiss on the lobe, and Jaskier's knees buckled.

"Sweet mother of- _oh-_ oh, uh, Geralt-"

He moaned quietly when Geralt bit down on his neck, and the reality of their location fell through even as his body felt warmer to all the attention.

"Geralt, _stop."_

And he doesn't like taking orders, but there are things he can't and won't deny, out of basic decency; Geralt pulled away from his neck and looked into Jaskier's eyes - when he saw no hint of discomfort (or really, anything less than fondness), he leaned forward and touched their foreheads. His hands were still where they stopped at Jaskier's back and his arms circled his hips, while Jaskier's had moved to wrap him in a hug. They were both panting, holding each other close.

"Sorry," Geralt started, "that wasn't soft."

Jaskier leaned back, letting his head hit the wood of the wall, and his partner took the opportunity to nose at his throat.

"Love isn't soft, Geralt. Doesn't have to be."

Geralt's eyebrows shot up, and he raised his head from where it was lodged to better look at Jaskier, which quickly turned to _staring_ at him, admiring, praising with the eyes... _This. This is **it.** What I've been trying to say for so long-_

"Hmph, what're y'u looking at?" he asked tiredly.

"You're a genius."

Jaskier's eyes blinked open as he leaned his head forward again. "What? Why?" he chuckled. "Is it my _impressive_ kissing abilities?"

Geralt laughed right back. "That too. Tired?"

 _"Tired._ What do you think?!" he scoffed, and it had Geralt snickering. "I played a whole set for my beloved audience today! And then right after..." his eyelids drooped as he traced Geralt's jawline with his hand, "My most beloved, _beautiful_ man in the world told me he loved me and then kissed me breathless."

"At your command," Geralt snipped jokingly.

"No," Jaskier beamed goofily, "You chose to."

Geralt's smile held up - _shone,_ rather than flickered, - and in that moment, he saw that Jaskier really did understand. Partly. Mostly. Perhaps... fully, wholly.

"You are a lovebird," he murmured, kissing Jaskier’s cheek.

"S'ppose we both are now... is that what we are now, is that-" he laughed openly, "Is _that_ the title that _destiny_ has in store for us?"

Geralt groaned, burying his face into Jaskier's neck again.

"Fuck titles, and fuck destiny."

"And fuck _me... **and**_ you," Jaskier completed sleepily, lulled by the conversation from inside the inn. Geralt laughed easily into his skin and held him tighter - the fact that they were there is his proof that he _didn't_ fuck up this particular decision.

"And fuck us both, yes."

Well. Destiny couldn't be half as honest.

**Author's Note:**

> Aaand hello again! I hope that you liked this fic - took a lot of time and effort to get it right haha
> 
> Now an important end note - I personally don't see it this way, but I'll leave it here just in case: if you are someone who's been through trauma (especially trauma similar to what Geralt goes through here) and you feel I've misrepresented it somehow or romanticised things that shouldn't be romanticised, that was not my intention at all! If you're okay with it, tell me how I could have done better! Thanks in advance.
> 
> Anyway, as can be inferred from the tags, there is some shameless self-projection here, because I relate a lot to Geralt and how he puts out his feelings, but I haven't seen a single soul look at him through the lens of these "control issues" and, well- not just him, but most characters, really, but Geralt lives in a world where destiny isn't proven or disproven, and he is a staunch disbeliever whom the franchise (and the show more especially) tries to disprove constantly. I, well, possess some of these "control issues" myself, and it made me want to throw bananas at the screen every time someone came forward all up in Geralt's nose about destiny. Seriously hoping none of this is disrespectful to the work lolol
> 
> In any case, while Geralt is a something of a particular magnet for this, it pretty much extends to every character I see in media to different degrees, and the fact that no one else seemed to feel the same made me feel very alone in the world for a while. For that reason, this work in particular is very special to me, and if Geralt's feelings about control resonated with you, please tell me about it in the comments! If this fic makes even one person feel better about it I'll be glad to have helped!
> 
> Just a note before I end: the title of the fic is taken from one of the last few lines of "Invictus" (latin for "unconquered"), a poem written in the 19th century by William Ersnt Henley that speaks of precisely this subject matter (while, of course, keeping the context of the writer). If this fic's Geralt resonated with you, I recommend checking out the poem! It was one thing that really made me feel seen. As you may have noticed, "unconquered" is also the name of the series this fic belongs to, so indeed I do plan on writing more to it!
> 
> Lastly, yes. I made the bard quote Siken. That was a thing LMAO
> 
> For real, though, if you're reading this on the day of its publishing (or any other December 31/January 1st/2nd, really), happy new year! Here's to a good new cycle!
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)


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